The Tango
by hurleycat
Summary: It had been seven years since Mark had seen anyone in his family. When his father and stepmother come for a visit, Mark tries desperately to hide the secret of why he left home for New York.


_Title: The Tango_

_Author: hurleycat_

_Summary: It had been seven years since Mark had seen anyone in his family. When his father and stepmother come for a visit, Mark tries desperately to hide his secret of why he left home for New York. _

_Author's Note/Warnings: This fic does discuss the topic of sexual abuse. More is implied than described-mostly because I'm a bleeding heart who cries writing scenes like that-but if that's a difficult topic for you, feel free to skip out now. If you do choose to read it, leave me a review telling me what you think! I've never written Rent before. _

_Chapter: 1 of ?_

**_(1976)_**

Everyone was surprised when the rabbi's daughter married a widower fifteen years her senior with two kids, but no one was going to question her because she constantly talked about how much she loved her new stepchildren and husband. Adam Cohen was a good man who had been deeply involved with the synagogue's activities since before he was married to his first wife.

Nanetter was a beautiful, young woman who was studying to get her degree in education. She was kind. She was loving. She spent most of her time helping other people and trying to better herself in the faith. Nearly everyone in their community loved her.

Mark _hated_ her.

His mother had only been dead for five years and his father was already remarrying. They were still finding her knick knacks tucked away in the house, and some things still smelled like her, but Dad had decided it was time to bring in a new woman? It made Mark angrier than anything ever had before.

The first night that she moved into their house, Nan stopped in his doorway on her way to bed. She must have thought he was sleeping; she didn't say anything, but she watched him and smiled to herself.

Anger flared up in Mark as she hovered there. His mom used to do that. When he asked her why, she told him that sometimes she couldn't believe she had such amazing children and she had to go and remind herself that he and Cindy were really there and safe.

_Nan_ shouldn't get to do that.

Mark flipped over so his back was facing Nan, hoping she would just go away if she knew he wasn't asleep. She stayed for a few more moments before shuffling away. It didn't sound like she stopped at Cindy's room too.

Whatever. Fuck her, Mark figured.

.~.

**_(1977)_**

Mark sulked in a corner, and Cindy seemed to be mimicking his gloomy demeanor next to him. (Whether it was because she was just as upset as him or she just wanted to be like her big brother, Mark wasn't sure.) Cindy was eight years old now and her bad moods were vicious, so people steered clear of them.

The Scarsdale Jewish Community Center had this stupid fundraiser brunch every year, and every damn year Dad dragged Mark and Cindy along. Until this year though, they'd all just kept to themselves until it was over. But now Dad was married to the rabbi's daughter and he was expected to socialize just as she was.

Dad had originally attempted to involve Mark and Cindy in the festivities on the dance floor, but Mark shot him a dirty look and Cindy hid in her brother's jacket, so he'd eventually just wandered off with Nan.

Mark looked down at his sister, who was starting to look bored. She seemed to be eyeing the people dancing in the middle of the room. He started to feel bad for making her think she should be isolating herself. "Wanna go dance, Cin?" he asked.

She looked up at him. Her big blue eyes sparkled as she nodded.

Mark grabbed her hand, and they walked slowly over to the dance floor. Mark didn't recognize the dance they were doing, but he knew Cindy was a quick learner, so he ushered her over to one of her boy friends. They partnered up and began to attempt mimicry of the adults' movements.

Hovering on the side, Mark stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around for anyone he knew. There had to be at least one other kid his age sulking about being dragged here.

Before he could find anyone, he felt someone come up beside him. "No dancing for you?" Nan asked.

Mark shook his head. He tried not to sound annoyed as he responded, "Don't know how."

"You danced during Yom Kippur," she reminded him, putting her hand on his shoulder. Her long fingernails scratched his skin.

Mark shrugged, forcing her hand away. "I knew how to waltz. I don't know how to do this. I'm fine just watching Cindy."

Nan looked at him for a second, pursing her lips. She grabbed his hand. "You're such a good brother—but come on. But you're eleven; you should know how to tango. I'll teach you."

Mark grudgingly allowed her to lead him to the edge of the dance floor. He tried not to roll his eyes as she started, "Put your left hand on my back." He put his hand on her shoulder blades, and she rolled her eyes. "The small of my back."

He lowered his hand, glancing around at the other dancing people.

Nan placed her hands and explained, "Now remember that the beat always goes slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. Okay, step forward with your right, then your left, and then your right again." She pulled him slightly closer as he began to follow her instructions. "Good, now step to the right with your right foot. And then bring your left foot to your right. Tada!" That's pretty much it—well the basic steps at least. Keep going."

Mark gulped, trying to push down the feeling of being entirely too close to Nan. His dislike for her had led to him keeping his distance until now. He nearly choked when she pulled him even closer.

"I…" Mark pulled away quickly. "I need to go to the bathroom."

He went to the restroom, and when he got back Nan was nowhere to be found, so he gladly settled back into watching over Cindy. For some reason, he couldn't get his heart to stop racing.

.~.

The next morning, Dad was rushing around the house, trying to get himself and Cindy ready. She had a dentist appointment that everyone had forgotten about until twenty minutes ago.

Mark went into Cindy's room to help her get ready, but when he got there, Nan was already there. She was folding Cindy's pants and putting them in her drawers. "Oh," Mark blurted out. "She's ready?"

Nan smiled at him. "I figured I'd get her ready since your dad is so stressed."

"I usually…" He trailed off, looking around at the room, which was unusually tidy. "Never mind. I can finish doing that." He started to walk over to take the clothes from her.

"I can do it," she snapped. It was the first time Mark had ever heard her sound distinctly unpleasant.

Drawing back, Mark blinked. "Oh. Okay." He took Cindy by the hand and led her to the kitchen to get her some breakfast.

When Dad and Cindy had finally gotten together and left for the dentist, Mark walked over to the sink to start washing the breakfast dishes. He didn't even hear Nan walk into the room until he was right next to him and said, "I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier."

Mark jumped, dropping the glass he'd been rinsing out. It shattered on the floor.

"It's fine," he grumbled. He stepped around the glass shards to get the dustpan. He swept up his mess quickly then started to walk over to the trash can.

He was stopped though by Nan standing right in front of him. She chewed on her lip for a second then moved abruptly forward. It took Mark a few seconds to even register what was happening. She was _kissing_ him.

He knew he should shove her away—he _wanted_ to shove her away—but everything in him was frozen. He couldn't even get his fingers to twitch, much less get his entire arms to push against her.

Nan moved her hand to the back of his head, bringing them closer together, and Mark felt the dustpan slip from his hand to the ground. Everything smelled like perfume, and the only thing he could feel was her grip on his head and right shoulder.

He received the jolt he needed to move away when her hand moved from his shoulder, slowly down his arm, and eventually down to his pants zipper. He stumbled back so quickly that his back collided with the counter behind him.

His chest heaved and his hands shook as he shouted, "_What the fuck_?"

"Oh, come on," Nan sneered. "You've been giving me the eyes since your dad and I got married. You've been waiting for this."

"_No_! I haven't!" Mark edged his way down the counter, toward the door. "You're crazy. I'm telling my dad."

She ran over to him and grabbed the front of his neck. It wasn't a strangling hold, but it was definitely threatening. "Don't you dare, you little brat. If you tell your dad _anything_, I'll tell him you raped me. Who's he gonna believe?"

Mark couldn't get his heart to stop racing enough to think of a response.

"That's what I thought." Nan shoved him away and walked away to clean up the glass on the ground, like nothing had happened.

Mark scrambled up the stairs and locked himself in his room.

.~.

**_(1978)_**

Months passed without Mark or Nan mentioning anything about what had happened in the kitchen. In fact, Nan seemed to be keeping distance between them, more so than Mark used to.

It wasn't until Dad left to do some beginning-of-the-year business meetings that anything happened again. His dad had been gone for a few days already, and Nan had been taking care of them, but Mark had spent most of that time keeping Cindy busy and away from their stepmother. He knew it was unlikely Nan would do anything to Cindy, but he was a suspicious, protective big brother.

"Goodnight," Mark whispered, pulling the covers over Cindy's body.

She mumbled something that sounded like "goodnight, love you" before her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth fell open.

He chuckled. "Love you too," he said as he walked out of the room, turning off the light and pulling the door almost closed.

There wasn't much to do, and he was exhausted from playing with Cindy all day, so he got himself ready for bed, read for a little while, and then turned out the light.

About half an hour of not being able to fall sleep passed before Mark heard his door open. The figured in the doorway was too big to be Cindy. Mark felt himself tense up. He pretended to be asleep.

Nan walked over to his bed and shook him. "Mark, I can't sleep," she whispered.

Mark acted like he was just waking up. He grumbled out, "What am I supposed to do about it?"

He tried to turn over so he had his back to her, but Nan grabbed his shoulder and pushed him to lying on his back. She sat on the edge of the bed for a second. Neither of them said anything.

Then, slowly, she got on all fours, hovering over him. Mark tried to swallow but couldn't, and he made a motion to get up, but she stopped him again. She lowered herself down so she was lying on top of him.

"Nan," Mark choked out. "St—"

"_Sh_," she responded, sounding like she was consoling a toddler.

Slowly, she brought their lips together and forced her tongue into his mouth. Mark made no movements, too shocked that this was happening again to do much of anything. Even when she brought her hands to his bare chest—he made a mental note to start sleeping with a shirt on—it didn't register that he should just _do something_.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this," Nan whispered, pulling out of the kiss. "All those looks you've been giving me… It's hard not to lose control while your dad is right there."

Mark wanted to sob. Had he really given her looks?

The covers were already down to his waist, but Nan pulled them down farther, revealing that he was only in his boxers.

"Well, we'll just have to get rid of those," she said.

.~.

The next morning, it was Monday, and he should have been getting ready for school, but Mark refused to get out of bed. He whined about stomach pains, telling his dad that he thought he was going to throw up.

He really did think he was going to puke just from thinking about what had happened the night before.

He'd kissed girls before, and he'd even gotten to tongue action before, but he'd never done… _it_.

Mark felt a sob force itself out. He pulled the covers over his head and wiped his eyes. He hadn't really stopped crying since Nan had left his room the night before, reminding him that his dad would never believe him.

He should have fought back. He should have protested more. He should have done _something_ to make her leave him alone.

Mark curled up into an even tighter ball under the covers.

If he'd done something differently, she wouldn't have been able to do that to him.

.~.

**_(1980)_**

Two years. _Two years_.

He'd dealt with her fucking bullshit for two years before anyone got even close to catching them. Nan had gotten brave; she gave him long glances, let her hand linger on him, and even got too close to touching his butt—all when his family was around.

_He_ thought it was glaringly obvious what was happening, but his dad never gave it a second thought.

Mark had bought a scarf one year when the winter was unusually cold, and then it had been shoved into the back of his closet. When Nan got comfortable enough to start leaving hickeys on his neck, his pulled it out again and started to wear it whenever they were obvious. Eventually, he found it was comforting to hold on to it, and he wore it all the time.

He'd started getting nightmares too. When he was able to sleep, all he could think about the fact that Nan could very easily slip into the room. It was all he dreamed about. He fought back more in his dreams though, and sometimes he would wake up screaming, kicking his covers off, and hands batting out in front of him. His dad would come rushing into the room and hold Mark close. Mark relished those moments in the middle of the night.

He didn't know he talked in his sleep.

One day, after a night with Nan, he walked through school like a zombie. He'd gotten absolutely no sleep and could barely keep his eyes open.

It wasn't his fault that math was so boring; it was his fault he was so tired. But Ms. Jackson did seem to think it was Mark's fault that he fell asleep.

He sat in the back of the class, and people probably wouldn't have even noticed he was asleep if he hadn't been a talker. Later, someone who sat a few rows down from him would tell him that he said "No" a lot, and sobbed out "please" once.

Mark was woken up by Ms. Jackson slamming her ruler down on the desk. He jolted up in his seat, chest heaving, and looking around the classroom. "Sorry," he whispered.

She looked down at him sternly before she said, "Speak to me after class."

He nodded and gulped.

After class, Mark shuffled up to her desk, eyes downcast. This teacher was his only female teacher, and he'd always found it extremely difficult to look into her eyes or let their hands make contact when she handed him papers.

Ms. Jackson didn't get up from her desk. She motioned for him to sit facing her, and he did. Then slowly, she said, "I can't have you falling asleep in my class, Mark." Mark nodded and was about to apologize again, but she continued, "It did seem as though you were having a nightmare though, which is what I wanted to talk to you about."

Mark blinked, unsure of how to respond. "Oh."

She smiled sympathetically. "Do you have nightmares often?" she asked.

"Only sometimes," Mark lied. He fiddled with his scarf. It was starting to be a warm spring and there was a ring of sweat gathering at his neck. He knew that her next question was going to be on what the nightmares were about. "They only happen when I've been thinking about my mom a lot. She died when I was six."

Ms. Jackson seemed to relax a little bit. "Oh, _Mark_. I'm very sorry that happened. You can always talk to me about this if you need to—or the school psychologist—ok?"

Mark nodded. "May I go?" he asked.

She nodded, and he dashed out of the room.

.~.

**_(1981)_**

It was one of _those_ nights. Nan hadn't even managed to even get his shirt off—(He now slept with one on)—before they both sensed someone standing in the doorway. Nan shot up to move to the edge of the bed.

Mark sat up. "Cindy," he said, sounding breathless. "What's wrong?"

Cindy was twelve now, and she rarely needed her brother anymore, but she was standing in the doorway, looking lost. "I—I couldn't sleep…" She trailed off, looking between Nan and Mark. "Will you come hang out with me until I'm tired?"

"Of course." Mark pushed the covers away from his feet and stood. He didn't even glance at Nan as he walked out of the room.

Cindy led him into the living room and pulled out cards. She started dealing to play speed.

Neither of them said anything until Cindy softly said, "Why was Nan in your room?"

Mark cleared his throat, picking up the stack of cards Cindy had dealt him. "I couldn't sleep. She was trying to help me sleep." His voice was so monotone and flat as he said it, that he knew he wouldn't believe it if he was Cindy.

Cindy just nodded to herself and picked up her own cards.

.~.

(1982)

Mark held his backpack close to his stomach, glancing around as people bustled around him. He'd never really been far from home on his own, and he'd definitely never been out this late without his dad to protect him.

He chewed on his lip. The arrivals board said the train would be an hour late. That really was just his luck.

Feeling anxious, Mark stood up, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and started to walk around the train station. He noticed people looking at him and sat back down. It wasn't a good idea to be drawing attention to himself right now.

A woman's voice pierced through the intercom, announcing the arrival of the next train. It was about the time his train should have been arriving, and Mark momentarily got his hopes up that the arrivals board had been wrong, but the train number wasn't his.

Mark had no way of knowing if his dad or stepmom had noticed his disappearance yet. For all he knew, they could be on their way here to take him home, if they knew he had come here.

He felt his teeth grind against each other as he contemplated what he would do if they did come. He could always hide in the bathroom until they decided he wasn't there. Or he could stand up for himself-refuse to go-but he was only sixteen and a complete wimp. If they really wanted to force him back home, it wouldn't take much effort.

Mark went back to huddling in his chair in the corner but soon began to get hungry. He'd been too anxious for most of the day to eat much of anything, and he was starting to feel the effects of it. He saw a vending machine selling a bag of chips for a dollar. Checking his wallet, he realized he only had a five; the machine didn't give change, and Mark couldn't afford to waste a few dollars.

Before he could even ask anyone, he heard a rough voice say, "You need to break that five?"

Mark whipped his head around too fast and had to blink a few times to see the boy sitting next to him. How long had he been there? "Oh—um—yes. Please," he replied.

The boy shifted to he could reach into his back pocket, wincing as he did so. It wasn't until that moment that Mark noticed the sheen layer of sweat over the other boy's face; his hair stuck to his forehead; his eyes were watering too. He definitely looked like he'd seen better days.

"Here." He pulled out six ones and handed them to Mark, whose hands shook as he reached forward. "Buy me some while you're up, yeah?"

Mark gulped, handed him the five, and nodded. He scrambled to his feet and shuffled over to the vending machine.

He brought back two bags of potato chips and handed one to the boy. His hands were shaking too, but more like he was sick than scared.

Mark gulped. He swallowed a potato chip and said, "What's your name?"

The boy looked at him weird, like he was halfway between annoyed and amused. He looked like he wasn't going to say anything for a moment, but then he mumbled, "Roger. Yours?"

"Mark."

Roger tried out the name on his tongue, "Mark. Hm. Where are you coming from, Mark?"

"Sca—nowhere." Mark felt his face turn red. He looked out the window again, still nervous that he would see his parents storming into the station.

Roger was giving him that weird look again. Then he shrugged. "All right, I got you." He nodded a few times, looking around at the people in the station. "Kids your age don't hang around train stations in the middle of the night, looking like you do, because they want to be sent home."

Mark bit his lip and touched the tender skin around his eye before bringing his hand down to fiddle with his scarf. "I'm not a kid."

Roger pulled a tissue out of his pocket and wiped his nose. "Yeah? How old are you?"

"I'm sixteen." Mark pulled back his shoulders and lifted his chin, trying to look bigger than he was. "How old are you?" he asked defensively.

"Nineteen."

"You're a kid too."

"Well, one of us is legally allowed to be out past midnight here, and it's not you, Mark." Roger was smirking.

Mark huffed.

"What are you doing out here anyway?" Roger asked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. As he lit one, he looked expectantly at Mark. "I mean, obviously you're running—but from or to something?"

Mark chewed on the inside of his cheek. "From."

"I figured." Roger held the cigarette between his fingers but seemed too distracted to put it in his mouth. "Me—I'm going to New York. I know a guy who said he'd set me up with somewhere to live. I'm gonna join a band."

"Oh." Mark looked out the window again.

The woman's voice was back. "Acela Express to New York City is now boarding."

Mark sprang up. The faster he got on that train, the faster he would be out of this suffocating town. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and lifted up his duffel bag. "This is my—"

Roger was getting up too. "I guess you're stuck with me for a little longer," he said, smirking.

In the end, they were stuck with each other for a while.

.~.

(1989)

"Speak!"

Mark was willing to put down five bucks that the call was from his stepmom—"Mom". Since he'd contacted his dad to give him their new number, she'd called more than Dad had. Mark grimaced as, sure enough, her voice crackled through the speaker.

"Mark, honey? Why aren't you answering our calls lately? Your dad is getting worried."

Roger walked into the room, holding his guitar. He frowned as he too was assaulted by the high pitched, whining voice. He made a motion with his fingers like a gun against the side of his head.

Chuckling, Mark hauled himself from the couch and picked up the phone. "Hi," he drawled out, sounding happy while curling his lips in disgust. "Sorry, I've been busy."

"Oh," Nanetter responded. She didn't say anything for a second. "Well, your dad mentioned that it's been a few years since we've seen you."

Seven years to be exact, but "a few" worked too. "Yeah," Mark grunted out, watching as Roger took his first dose of AZT for the day.

"So… We were thinking we would come visit you," Nan continued. "It would—"

Mark interrupted her. "Don't do that."

Mark's voice must have shown how upset he was because Roger whipped his head around to look at him. He raised his eyebrows in questioning. Mark held up a finger to tell him to wait.

Nan started, "But—"

"It's just that I'm not living in the best part of town right now and I don't like the idea of you guys staying here so…" He stopped, but heard Nan open her mouth to respond, so he continued, "And I have some friends staying here right now, so there's not really any room and…"

He looked to Roger, hoping he would catch on and come up with another excuse for them.

"We just miss you a lot, Mark," Nan whined. "And it's okay if there's not much room. Your dad and I will sleep on the floor if we have to. You know us."

Mark felt himself snap. "I just don't want you guys to come, okay? Just deal with it."

Roger made his way across the room to put his ear close to the phone. Mark shot him an annoyed look.

"Mark." She had the nerve to sound hurt. Mark ground his teeth. "We've been trying to see you since you ran off without an explanation all those years ago—"

"Without an explanation?" Mark growled. "Fuck you, Nan." He hung up the phone with as much force as he could.

Roger took a step away. "You okay?"

Mark grimaced. "Never better," he mumbled, stalking over to the kitchen to take a cigarette from the pack Roger had left on the counter. He didn't smoke often, but he could appreciate the edge it took off from his stress.

As he lit the cigarette, he thought about how Nan was going to break it to his dad that Mark had rejected their request to visit. He really would have liked to see his dad if it didn't require seeing Nan as well.

Maybe he could deal with seeing her for just a little while… No. Fuck Nan.

He'd left her behind years ago and it had taken most of those years to recover from the damage she'd left him with. He'd never sought counseling or anything, but he'd cracked and told Maureen about everything that had happened. (You don't sleep next to someone every night without them finding out a few secrets eventually.) Underneath her wanton nature and inability to commit, she was a caring person. She listened to him, she consoled him at night, and she'd even read one whole chapter in a book about sexual abuse recovery.

Roger walked into the kitchen. He took a cigarette as well and said, "Wanna talk about it?"

Mark shook his head. "I miss my dad," he said quietly. "And my sister. She's twenty now. I haven't seen her since she was thirteen."

Roger bit his lip and thought for a long moment. Then he slowly said, "When I met you…" He tapped ash off of his cigarette. "You were a jumpy sixteen-year-old kid, running away from home with a black eye. That's all I know—but if you didn't want to see your family, nobody would blame you."

Mark put out his cigarette. "Yeah," he answered in monotone. "I'll have to think about it I guess."

.~.

Mark found himself dialing Maureen's number before he could stop himself. When an unfamiliar voice answered, he hesitated. "Um. Is Maureen there?"

"Yes… Who should I tell her is calling?" the woman on the other end asked. She sounded stern, like either a mother or a lawyer. Oh, this must be Joanne.

"Mark."

"Mark," Joanne repeated. "The Mark?"

"Um. Yeah? I guess so." Mark scratched the back of his head. He glanced over to the kitchen to see Roger taking his nighttime AZT.

Joanne sighed. "Hold on a second while I find Maureen."

There was rustling on the other end of the line and then some muttering before Maureen's voice said, "Mark, darling. How are you?"

Mark rolled his eyes. He shouldn't have called, he was starting to realize. If he was being honest, he would probably get better advice if he just told Roger everything; but telling Maureen alone had been hard enough that Mark didn't think he had it in him to tell anyone else.

"Maureen…" Mark sighed and rubbed his face. "I don't know what to do."

She was silent for a moment. She sounded more somber than usual when she replied, "What's wrong?"

Mark waited until Roger had left the room before he responded. "My stepmother called. She wants to see me."

"Oh." There was static as Maureen pulled away from the phone to tell Joanne, "Do you mind if I take this alone? This is kind of private." A few moments of unintelligible mumbling passed and then Maureen was back: "What did you tell her?"

"No. But then I started thinking… I haven't seen my dad or sister in seven years. That's a long time to be MIA without telling them why. They deserve to see me at least once." Mark started to tug on his scarf just so he had something to do with his hands.

Maureen said, "That doesn't mean you have to let your abuser into your home, Mark."

Mark shrugged then remembered she couldn't see him. "I dunno. I shouldn't have called you. I'm sorry for bothering you. I've gotta go." He hung up before she could even respond.

Roger must have heard him hang up because he walked back into the room. He looked like he was going to say something, but he stopped when Mark picked up the phone again.

Dialing the number quickly so he couldn't lose his nerve, Mark felt his hands start to shake. He put the phone to his ear. It rang twice before his father answered, "Hello, this is the Cohen residence."

"Hi, Dad." Mark said; it came out as a whisper and he cleared his throat before he continued, "I'm sorry for overreacting earlier. You guys can come."


End file.
